


A Different Sort of Vast

by ToriFae



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Buried Alive, it's not happy y'all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-06 16:43:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16836529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToriFae/pseuds/ToriFae
Summary: What happens after Mike Crew is shot, and buried.





	A Different Sort of Vast

**Author's Note:**

> hey so this theory came to me after thinking a lil bit and i loved it. created a little comic, talked about it with friends, you know who you are. this is my first sacrifice to the magnus archives' archives and it's kinda shitty but it's mine so i kinda like it. hope ou enjoy it! leave a comment and subscribe, smash that like button if you agree

_Breathe._

It’s something he used to have to tell himself, when he was human. To calm down, to remind himself where he was. Where was he?

Just, _breathe._

He had hazy memories of what happened, The damned Archivist and, a woman? No, a cop. Maybe both. He had been shot, and then… and then.

He tried to open his eyes, but could feel something against them, gritty, and unrelenting. He could feel it over his skin, pressing on him and making him feel weak. What had they done to him?

And why couldn’t he _breathe?!_

He opened his mouth in a moment of anger, and it was filled immediately with dirt, filling him up and choking him, even though he had no real need for air. He tried to move his arms to him mouth, but they were pinned to his side. He tried to make noise, to signal to anyone that he was still here- how long had it been since he was buried? 

Oh, god. _Buried._

They had buried him in the dirt in the ground and away from his god, in this suffocating and endless filth that drained him every time he tried to move. He couldn’t feel his god anywhere near him, even though the darkness surrounding him was infinite, he knew it was. It just wasn’t his domain, it was the opposite, crushing and invasive, and _fuck_ , was that squirming, was the corruption going to take a bite as well now that he was powerless?

He knew his power and the Buried didn’t get along- they were opposites, plain and simple. Their… target audience, so to speak were so similar it sometimes felt like stealing from the other. Is one truly afraid of the drop from an airplane, or being trapped in a tiny metal machine with no escape, and all that. He could feel the separation from his power, he felt almost like the entire world was around him, mocking him with an infinity of earth and no way to leave.

He stopped struggling and tried to calm himself. He tried to ignore the crushing dirt and the ache in his jaw ( since when could he ache?) and made the resolute promise to murder the archivist. Or send him back to the Vast, forever. Let it leech off of him, kill him, do whatever it wanted with the Archivist as long as he suffered like he did. Maybe he’d feed him to the Spiral, let him learn to unknow things, until he couldn’t Know anything anymore. 

The thought pleased him, so he kept on with it, thinking of revenge for the Archivist.

That is, until the dirt compressed even more against him, and he let out a groan from somewhere deep within. He could feel every grain pressing against his skin, hypersensitive to it’s texture, and felt more dirt start to be packed into his lungs. It was a very unpleasant feeling, and his body convulsed with the effort to push it back out, straining against the hold the ground had on him. He couldn’t stay like this. He’d didn’t think the Buried would let him die, but he’d be left for dead. 

The thought filled him with enough anger that he just barely managed to push his arm up through the dirt, and he felt a little bit of hope. Huh. It’d been a while since he could feel that. He pushed harder, and managed to slowly, but surely, dig his way up.   
He’d never worked harder in his life, he couldn’t breathe but felt like panting like a dog as his arms strained against the dirt. He knew he wasn’t going anywhere fast, but it felt better than lying in a hole. He could feel his skin split away as he continued to dig, he became the dirt he touched became wet with his blood, that in the back of his mind he could tell the pain was almost unbearable, were he in the right mind. He was not in the right mind. 

This went on for hours, maybe days. He moved at less than a snails pace, moving maybe half an inch or less every time he managed to push up. Had they buried him deeply? Or did they dig a shallow grave? He doubted the latter, even with his thoughts mostly incoherent he knew that people liked to bury monsters deep and away. He'd show them just how much of a monster he was, when he was out. He could feel himself moving closer to the sky, closer to his home. He dug steadily but surely, not stopping, his heart rising the closer and closer he got to the sky. He could feel the earth resisting, but he hoped that his god was fighting it, for him. It wanted him back, and as his hand breached the surface-

He could feel the ground tighten around him and drag him back down. The sound was almost like laughter as he let out a cry of which like he hasn’t had in years. The Buried was merciless and cruel. He was further down than before, he could feel the emptiness, the separation from the sky like a knife in his chest. He could finally feel his fingers, the pain, the way they had been worn down. He felt full despair, and let out a sob as he realized his fate. He raised his arm again, and began to dig.


End file.
